


The Arc of History

by celli-inkblots (thebeespatella)



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Discussion of Torture, Explicit Language, F/F, M/M, On Hiatus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:35:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebeespatella/pseuds/celli-inkblots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’d like to think our Congress would be an assembly of a little more substance.”</p><p>“After all this time, you think you’d know better. No, seriously. You’d think you would.”</p><p>“I do,” Steve says, and looks at him, and it’s heartrendingly sincere in that way that makes Tony feel a little uncomfortable. In his pants, sometimes. “I do know, but that’s why I have to do this. Tony, do you understand? I have to do this, it’s what’s right.”</p><p>--</p><p>On hiatus because I was thinking of rewriting this clumsy attempt at words, but then Trump, and I can't rn. (Jul. 2016)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Prologue of Sorts

**Author's Note:**

> It's a bit of [this prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/5102.html?thread=4336878#t4336878), as well as some of my own Captain America/international relations/current events nerd feels.
> 
> Oh dear, it's been so long since I've written.

“Those who've been told for so long by so many to be cynical and fearful and doubtful about what we can achieve…put their hands on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day… to all those who have wondered if America's beacon still burns as bright: tonight we proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity and unyielding hope. That's the true genius of America: that America can change. Our union can be perfected. What we've already achieved gives us hope for what we can and must achieve tomorrow.”

                                                            _\- Barack Obama, November 4, 2008_ __

**July 17, 2015. 10:26 a.m., Washington, D.C.**

 

Tony isn’t really one for nervousness. Huge crowds love him. Huge crowds feed him. With a smirk and a tilt of the sunglasses he can get ridiculously attractive women to drop their pants _immediately_. _That_ is his real superpower, never mind the suit. He’s conquered endless board meetings, fights with evil demigods, and that one time he walked in on Pepper and Natasha. He can do anything. So really, there’s nothing to worry about. He’s not nervous. He is sitting in his car, taking a very nice drive in a familiar city, and he is not nervous. 

“Shh,” Steve says next to him.

“Me? No, I didn’t say anything. I actually said nothing. No things are the things I said.” The words rush out, and then Tony catches the small smile on Steve’s face. “What?”

“You’re thinking so hard I can feel it. Just relax.”

“I’m fine. I’m relaxed. I’m perfect. You want to feel how relaxed I am? Cooler than a cucumber. Cooler than six cucumbers. Come on, check it out.” He pulls Steve’s fingers onto his neck. “See, check for pulse. Perfect. Fine.”

“It doesn’t count when your heart is monitored by a machine,” Steve answers, nodding at the arc reactor. “And it’s fine to be nervous. I’m nervous, too.”

“Captain America? Nervous? For what? Why would you be nervous, it’s not like you’re doing anything stupidly important—hey. Hey. Hey, don’t ignore me. I’m totally fine.” Tony frowns behind his sunglasses. “So you got notecards or something?”

Steve pulls a ragged piece of paper from his uniform pocket and waves it, the brass on the lapel catching the light.

Tony frowned harder. “You’re going to use that? Jarvis, let’s get him a clean copy—”

“You have a _printer_ in your _car_? Even after a year, you still…”

“No, but good idea. I was going to hack into a—Jarvis, give me the layout for the Reynolds congressional building. Where’s the closest office to the entrance?”

“Momentarily, sir.” A rotating model of the building popped up out of the tablet on Tony’s lap.

Steve started waving it away ineffectively. “No, stop. Jarvis, it doesn’t matter, it—I want it to be this way, it’s not a big deal. Please close it, I feel like the words ‘hack’ and ‘congressional’ really shouldn’t be so close—”

“Jarvis, I programmed you, open that layout, converge to—hey, listen, listen, Luke, I am your—”

He’s cut off when Steve grabs his face and kisses him. It’s not the most graceful of movements, not by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s passionate, tingling with searing heat. He gasps, and Steve breathes it in, taking the pause to smile against his lips, run his tongue against the inside of Tony’s teeth. His hands gently frame Tony’s face as he presses forward, deepening the kiss so that Tony is scrabbling for purchase across his broad chest, catching on the medals pinned to his uniform.

“Shall I terminate the program, sir?”

“Shut up, Jarvis,” they both say, then grin at each other briefly before pulling apart.

“Hey,” Steve says, and the tenderness of the back of his hand against Tony’s cheek is almost too much to bear. “I’m fine. It’s going to be fine.”

“I can still print you a new copy, it’s all about presentation with these jackasses,” Tony replies, raising his eyebrows.

“I’d like to think our Congress would be an assembly of a little more substance.”

“After all this time, you think you’d know better. No, seriously. You’d think you would.”

“I do,” Steve says, and looks at him, and it’s heartrendingly sincere in that way that makes Tony feel a little uncomfortable. In his pants, sometimes. “I do know, but that’s why I have to do this. Tony, do you understand? I have to do this, it’s what’s right.”

“Yeah. Yeah, no.” He looks out the tinted window. “Sure, yeah.”

“It won’t be that bad. An hour or two at most, and then it’s all over.”

“Don’t—it’s fine, I’m just along for the ride. This is actually a very nice car.”

Steve brushes the corner of Tony’s mouth with his thumb. “It is.”

“Sir, we’re here.”

“Thank you, Happy.” Steve takes a deep breath, then puts on a small black mask, covering the top half of his face, checks his pocket for his speech. “Well. Here goes.” He opens the door to camera flashes and shouted questions.

“Wait.” Tony steps out after him, touches his elbow. “Don’t forget this.” He hands him his uniform hat, tugs down the dark blue sleeve of the uniform where the white shirt underneath was still visible before he can help himself. “I hear it’s the latest in Washington.”

Only now in the autumn sunlight can he see the shakiness of Steve’s smile, the way his fingers are trembling even as they rest lightly on Tony’s elbow, but he can’t, not here, not in front of every reporter ever to take a dump in the White House.

“I didn’t say that out loud, did I?”

Steve shakes his head disapprovingly, but it’s tempered with a real smile, anxiety melting away for a moment. Then he turns, straightens his back, throws back his shoulders, and walks up the steps without a look back, every inch Captain America.

“I’ll just be outside,” Tony says, more to himself than anyone else, then gets back into the car. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We should get you caught up. On history. Yeah,” he smiles, getting more enthused by the idea. “We should do a holistic look at seventy years that you’ve missed, understand why you shouldn’t—why the world is the way it is today.”
> 
> “Your espresso is ready, sir.”
> 
> “Perfect.”

**May 23, 2014. 1:14 p.m., Stark Residence, New York City.**

“God, fucking fuck. God.” Tony pounds away at a set of reluctant gears, hitting them with a small mallet with much more force than necessary.

“Sir, I must advise that any more abuse, and the machinery will most probably bend out of shape.”

“Don’t give a shit,” Tony mutters, but stops nonetheless, throws the hammer to the ground. The robotic arm in front of him is steadily progressing towards scrap heap, fingers limply twitching. To think that this was supposed to be a _de-stressing_ project.  

“Something appears to be troubling you, sir.”

“Genius, Jarvis. No, no, I—” he runs a hand through his (sweaty, greasy) hair “—I don’t need a therapist, but thanks. I’ve got it under control.”

“As you will, sir.”

“He’s just so…goddamn. All the time.”

“You will need to elaborate, sir.”

“He just believes in all this idealistic…in the power of the people, and the country, and all this other _shit._ ” He says it viciously, mockingly. “All these things that I never—I’m not less patriotic, I just understand that _real life_ doesn’t work itself out all pretty like a twisty donut, okay. I mean, Jesus.”

“Are you referring to Mr. Rogers, sir?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. Captain America.”

“I presume you find him irritating.”

“I programmed you well.” He takes a deep breath, trying to get at the small place in his mind where he knows this anger comes from, trying to break away the white noise around it. “He just…believes. So much. While I…” His eyes light on an old picture that he’s certain he never put on his desk. It’s him and his father, a candid shot as they mess about in the sand. “Actually, Jarvis, yeah—”

“There are several therapists available within a ten-mile radius. Shall I—”

“No. Get me some whiskey. Good whiskey. In fact, why don’t you order some of the Blue Label for me.”

“But sir, you still have three and a half bottles left.”

“I have a feeling I’ll be out soon.”

Tony retrieves the whiskey from the third wet bar in the lab, the one he’s pretty sure Pepper doesn’t know about, but she probably does, and settles down with an ice bucket and a mission.

A few glasses later, looser, more comfortable, he finds Rogers in the kitchen, sitting quietly with a book. “Rogers. Hey. Rogers.”

He looks up at that, big blue eyes quickly filling with concern. “Are you drunk?” he whispers when Tony sits next to him. “Have you been—yes, you have, I can smell it on you, God, it’s not even gone six yet, are you—”

“Spare me. Now.” He struggles to stand, ice clinking against the glass and the bottom finger of whiskey sloshing dangerously. “Crazy? Crazy. I have been called many things in my lifetime, Cap, and crazy certainly is one of them. But I am not, however, completely insane.”

Rogers just looks at him. Whether the silence is out of patience or confusion, Tony’s happy with it. “Here’s the deal, all right. You have no idea. You have no idea what it’s like.”

“I accept that,” he answers. Patience, then.

“No, you’re not—you’re not _getting_ me, Cap. See, I’m not talking about this.” He waved a hand at the mess of machinery lining his wall, the pool glinting in the afternoon light outside. “I’m talking about this.”

“Steady there,” Rogers murmurs, but Tony ignores it.

“Don’t tell me what to. Anyway. This.” He jabs his finger at the magazine cover—a bloated picture of Newt Gingrich, with large red print across it. “Always questioning,” he says more quietly. “We are. They are. We’re always in doubt now. Used to be that we had lines, things we didn’t—but now, all that matters…” He drifts off. Even through the alcoholic haze, he can tell that he’s not stringing thoughts together very well, and that Steve is holding him up, one warm hand on his arm, the other nestled on his waist. “You missed out on a lot, champ. That’s all.”

 “I know,” he says. “I haven’t had a chance—”

“Why do you want to be Captain America, anyway?” Tony’s voice breaks over his like the tide over shoreline. “Why do you want to carry that name, that—that shield. The doubt—the doubt works, and it’s only…it’s only a matter of time.”

“Before?”

“Before you don’t want to do it anymore.”

There’s a silence. Steve pushes Tony back onto his feet. “I will always do my utmost to serve the United States of America and her interests,” he finally says stiffly.

He can feel it rushing back, piercing him with the same intensity as before. “Don’t be stupid,” he growls.

“I owe it to America to preserve the freedom, justice, and democracy that so many have died for,” Steve says waspishly, then gets up to leave.

“We have to look at things,” Tony yells after him, instead of throwing the glass. Good Tony. “Remind me that we have to look at things.”

Steve spares him a stony glance. “Why don’t you ask Jarvis?” And then he leaves.

“Why don’t I ask Jarvis,” Tony mumbles into his glass. “Why don’t I. Hey, Jarvis, remind me tomorrow that we have to look at things. Also remind me that I really want to punch that motherfucker right now. In the face.”

 

**May 24, 2014. 8:36 a.m., Stark Residence, New York City.**

 

“Why do you do this?”

Light floods the room, the sound of heels clicking around the room.

“Hmm? Answer me.”

“I—wow, no, close that. Definitely close those, I. Light. Shut it down. Jarvis?” His tongue is thick and heavy in his mouth, throat dry and sticking, and his head is killing.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Far from. Seriously, Tony, it’s a weekday, you were completely…”

“Pepper. Pepper.” A small ceramic cup is shoved into his face, and a heavenly smell rises. “Oh, you are a goddess. Athena is but a common backroom slattern compared to you.” He downs the espresso in one go—too hot, on the burnt side—then opens his eyes as it floods him. “Hi.”

Pepper just looks at him. “Hi.” There’s an expression on his face that worries him, even through the pain in his head.

“What brings you to New York, Ms. Potts? Last I heard, Stark Industries headquarters were in—”

“Spill it, Tony.”

He looked away. “Pepper, it was nothing. I was just having a drink, that’s all.”

“Ms. Potts requested I do the alcohol content calculations. Factoring in the melting of the ice, you had the equivalent of—”

“Seven. Seven drinks.” She held up the empty bottle of Blue Label.

“I was just blowing off some steam, it’s not a big—”

She glares at him, but doesn’t say anything, whirling around instead to leave the room, click, click, click, four-inch heels.

“How are you dressed before nine?” he asks, and she stops at the door.

“Some of us have _work_ , Tony,” she says, and leaves.

“Jarvis. Jarvis, you’re going to have to close those blinds, I need some shut-eye here.”

“Ms. Potts advised me to tell you that there are two aspirin and a glass of water on your right-hand-side bedside table.”

With a groan, Tony rolls over to that side of the bed, legs twisting into the sheets, downing the aspirin dry and grimacing at the taste. “I guess now I have to thank her?” he says into a pillow.

“It was not Ms. Potts who supplied you with medication,” Jarvis says.

“Who then?” Tony says, before he knows he’s dreading the answer.

“Mr. Rogers, sir.”

Tony groans and puts his face back into the pillow. Today is going to be a long day.

“You asked me to remind you that you would like to do him bodily harm, sir. As well as that you require—‘to look at things.’” Jarvis sounds embarrassed to be so unspecific, so vernacular.

“I…” The scene comes back to him: Newt Gingrich on a magazine cover, the too-bright glint of the lights against the machines in his kitchen. The empty bottle only draining him further instead of filling him up like it used to. “I should get up.”

When he goes downstairs, freshly dressed and showered and feeling remarkably better, he finds it deserted except for a bowl of cereal and a spoon.

“What—”

“Good morning,” Steve says behind him, and he starts.

“Uh, yes. That.” He can only watch as Steve sits down with the newspaper and cereal, begins to eat and read.

Cautiously, he sits in front of Steve. “Jarvis, could you get me a doppio macchiato, heavy on the foam.”

“Right away, sir.”

“So, listen,” he begins, and Steve puts the paper down and looks him in the eye. Suddenly it’s much harder to speak; he’s pinned to a wall by that gaze. It’s so full of seriousness, of focus. “About yesterday.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve says immediately.

“I remember saying some things—”

“Don’t we all?” A brief, strained smile.

“What I was trying to say,” Tony says, trying to find what he was trying to say, rummaging through words and discarding them just as quickly, “is that we should get you caught up.”

“What?”

“We should get you caught up. On history. Yeah,” he smiles, getting more enthused by the idea. “We should do a holistic look at seventy years that you’ve missed, understand why you shouldn’t—why the world is the way it is today.”

“Your espresso is ready, sir.”

“Perfect.” He ambles over to the machine. Energy is already starting to go through him, the way it does when he has a new project, but he’s not sure why—he’s never been interested in turning the gears of the mind. “Jarvis, let’s figure this out. Movies, articles, books, pictures, monographs, I want the whole shebang.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, almost really smiling at him.

He takes a long sip of espresso. “Don’t thank me yet, Cap.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you crazy?” Pepper asks, ignoring his question.  
> “Not really, not today. This isn’t crazy; I just want him to know. I want him to be educated about why we—why this is what we have.”  
> “Tony, this is—Tony.” She looks at him then, and it’s not disapproval that’s coloring her tone.  
> “You’re afraid,” he says, realizing. “You’re afraid of what might happen if he learns..."

**May 26, 2014. 5:00 p.m., Stark Residence, New York City.**

 

“What’s he up to, now?”

Steve jumps. He’s been watching as Tony works, putting together the program, fingers flying across wires and screens. There were computer files, and films, museum visits. “I—I’m not really. He’s putting together history.”

Pepper purses her lips. “I doubt it.”

“No, he is. For me to read about and see, so I’ll be able to, you know. Figure out today.”

She gives him a long look, and then turns to where Tony was fidgeting with a cable underneath a desk. “Tony,” she barks.

A painful-sounding bang, and Steve winces.

“What?”

“What’re you doing?”

“Putting together history, so Steve can read it and see.”

“Very funny, Tony. Tony.”

Tony stands up carefully, wrench in hand, and glares at her. “I’m working.”

“I’m aware of that, but could you please—just come outside with me, for a moment.”

“I’ll be right back.” He mindlessly passes Steve the wrench, and exits, calling over his shoulder, “Jarvis, back up the files.”

“At once, sir.”

Steve watches the pair go outside the door to the workroom, and looks down at the floor.

Tony sighs and closes the door behind him. “Pepper, this is really necessary?”

“Are you crazy?” Pepper asks, ignoring his question.

“Not really, not today. This isn’t crazy; I just want him to know. I want him to be educated about why we—why this is what we have.”

“Tony, this is—Tony.” She looks at him then, and it’s not disapproval that’s coloring her tone.

“You’re afraid,” he says, realizing. “You’re afraid of what might happen if he learns—”

“No, I, yes. Okay.” She closes her eyes and holds a hand up. “Yes, I am afraid. Think about what you’re doing, Tony. Okay? You’re dousing him with all this information in—what, a week?”

“According to the data, it’ll take at least three months to give him a comprehensive look at modern history, sufficiently understand all the different angles, and this is assuming we don’t have to work,” Tony answers. “I know not to overload him. Did Fury put you up to this?”

She bristled. “No, of course not, I’m just saying—”

“Right, because this really has an impact on you. No, there’s something else there—the Avengers initiative would definitely suffer from a grumpy Cap.”

“Think about what you’re doing,” she repeats. “The truth hurts.”

“The truth is the only thing that matters,” he says, almost cold, and steps back into the lab, not waiting for an answer.

“Sorry about that.”

“Not at all.”

It’s a quick, easy exchange, a slip of a moment. When Tony’s not thinking about it, he falls easily back into the patterns of regular conversation, of etiquette, even. He bets Tony would hate it if Steve ever applied the word “conventional” to him, but it’s the wrong word anyway.

"What're you making now?"

"The sixties," Tony answers from beneath the desk. "Or at least, I would be, if this wasn't. You know. Fucking up on me. Could you pass me that wrench?"

Steve wordlessly passes him the wrench, then sits back down. He likes watching Tony work. He likes the sound of the keys clicking neatly, the quiet whirr of the machines, the way Tony—normally scattered, falling apart, wild mouth and wilder eyes—becomes a blade, honed, a single sharp point focused on only one thing: fixing the next problem until what comes out from under his hands is perfection. He doesn’t mind the loud music, harsh, discordant, that Tony likes to play in the workroom. He doesn't even mind Tony's cursing anymore. It's become a fluid part of him that has melted into the sounds that put him together.

“Thanks for doing this,” Steve says. There’s a muffled grunt from under the table that might be acknowledgement if he squints at it. “Really,” he continues. “It’s awfully kind of you to help me by making a machine or robot or whatever you call it.”

“Program.”

“What?”

“A computer program, strictly speaking. Although I may have configured the insides so that it does things that regular computers don’t do yet.” Tony stands, doesn’t look at Steve, focusing all his attention instead on the screen in front of him. “Come on, you pretty thing,” he croons at it, tapping it on the side. “Come on, work for me.”

“Does hitting the screen work?” Steve asks, coming closer, minding the spare parts all over the floor. He wouldn’t want to break anything.

Tony glances at him, a smile twisting across his mouth. “No, it really doesn’t. Whoever told you that’s been feeding you crap about the twenty-first century, my friend.”

“Nobody told me. I just see Clint doing it sometimes when his laptop’s running slow.”

“Barton,” Tony hissed. “He knows that that’s Stark tech, right? That I gave him out of the goodness of my heart? You don’t _slap_ a Stark machine…do you, honey? No, you don’t. Come on, give it to me,” he murmurs at the monitor.

“Um.” Steve coughs. “You want me to leave you alone?”

Tony laughs, a sharp bark of a thing. “Nah, Cap, stick around. Don’t you want to see this come to life? Besides, who knows what other bad habits you’ll pick up.”

“I don’t _do_ it,” Steve contests hotly. “I just _saw_ him, once or twice—”

“—or six times, or a million. Too much porn.”

“He does spend a lot of time by himself in his room.”

“So do you, Rogers. Busy? Busy _rogering_ the—”

“ _Tony_.” The computer chooses that moment to beep, and Steve ducks his head, trying to hide the mix of blush and scowl that’s crossing his face. It’s not disapproval, per se, he’s heard worse, it’s just—strange. Strange to talk about.  

“Baby’s done. Jarvis—”

“Systems online. Project Tardis ready for your perusal, sir.”

“Give Captain Rogers access, read-only, though.” He turns to Steve with a rare, brilliant smile. “Let’s go upstairs, I’ve got to show you.”

“Show off, you mean?” Steve says, following him up the narrow steps away from the lab.

“Darling, do I do anything else?”

 

It’s dark out already, and Steve realizes he has no idea how much time he’s spent in the lab. Watching Tony—grease-stained, hair sticking up in all directions, wearing jeans that are missing a belt-loop—he sees that it might be hard to know when you’ve got to eat or sleep if you spend a while down there. “Jarvis, initiate Project Tardis,” Tony says clearly.

“Project Tardis, access granted. Files available.”

“So here’s the timeline,” Tony starts to explain, flicking through a series of numbers glimmering above a thick blue line that materializes in front of them. Steve barely jumps—when had he gotten used to computers popping out of thin air? “You can zoom in”—he spreads his hands apart, honing in on 10:00 a.m., July 4th, 1972—“or out, as far as you want. I only compiled from the winter of 1943 until the present day, but I’m sure I can add more stuff if you’re interested. I’ve also added specific details in reference to our team here, just so you know where we’re all at. There’s video, newspaper articles…here.” He zooms in again, and then Steve can see that the blue line is actually made up of images, flickering and still both, some covered in print and others with moving people. “I’ve got transcripts of speeches, too, so you can check that out. I also sort of grouped stuff—not a history buff, but Wikipedia’s great—and so you’ve got headings that you can—there better not be a glitch in the code, here, hey, Jarvis, can you—? Thanks. So, I guess you better start here. The end of World War Two.”

Steve is staring with his mouth slightly open, the blue glow bright against his face. “This is…this is _wonderful_ , Tony,” he says, and his eyes are—

“—shining. Motherfucking shining, yeah,” Tony grumbles to himself, but pastes on a smile. “It’s—it’s not that much, it’s a pretty neat toy, yeah, but hold _wonderful_ in for a future girlfriend or whatever.”

“No, Tony, don’t look like that. This is great. Really. Uh.” He suddenly seems to gain repossession of his body, his jaw snaps shut and he smiles, close-mouthed. “Thanks, you really didn’t have to.”

Tony is already walking away. “No problem, Cap. And let’s be honest, this was for me. The fact that you don’t know Snooki is _killing_ me, seriously.” He pretends he doesn’t see Steve brush his fingers across the digitized timeline like it’s made of freshly spun silk.

 

**May 27, 2014. 1:00 a.m., Stark Residence, New York City.**

He can hear Project Tardis upstairs, can hear Jarvis’ low drone, and one monitor of many shows activity happening upstairs, but instead, Tony turns to his bar again, pulls out another bottle.

Usually after completing a project—especially of this scale and complexity—Tony will reward himself with something less torturous, more delightful. Like sleep. Sleep would be wonderful. Instead he pours himself a few fingers of bad ideas and inhales, the sharp scent, the richness, the familiarity, takes a sip. In the dark smoke of the whiskey he can taste every shard from glasses, decanters, flutes, he’s hurled against a wall or dropped on the floor, leaving money to glitter helplessly in fine dust against expensive carpets and marble. He can feel every bruising kiss, every misremembered fuck, every illegible phone number or slip of paper caught in the gaps where his hands can’t reach.

Because here’s the thing. Here’s the secret, in all its delicately woven mischief, in all its roughly-hewn splinters: the timeline _is_ just for Tony. It’s not for Steve to learn about history, he’s said it before, and he’ll say it again, the truth hurts the most, and that is what Tony wants. He wants it to hurt. He wants Steve to get back into the boxing ring and face down the future in all his good-hearted might, throwing super punch after super punch, and he wants Steve to _lose_. He wants Steve to lose, thoroughly, completely. He wants distrust to break each one of Steve’s fingers, slowly snapping bone. He wants genocide to take Steve’s intestines and wrap them with barbed wire. He wants wars and pain and rape to take Steve’s eyes and turn them inside out so that in the end when he’s left on the floor of the ring to bleed out like an animal he’ll see. He’ll be just as distorted and broken as everybody else, he’ll be able to peek into the folds of his own brain and he’ll see there the savagery sitting in an ornate throne, surrounded by the flag he so loves, and he’ll finally understand that America is not a ship he should be proud to helm.

He swallows down more whiskey and it burns like a scream. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on it.


End file.
